Tag Archives: a mother’s loss

“My Support” (even in death)

I spent agonizing hours yesterday trying to compose this month’s poem. To no avail. I left it and came back to it a few hours later, when this poem just flowed. Same topic; just couldn’t write it at that particular time, I guess.

(37 months)

“My Support”

You supported me

When I couldn’t stand,

You were there…


Unknown to me

When I fell

On the third anniversary

Of your death,

When I crawled like a baby—

Or an old woman

Without wits—

Over the icy snow

To reach your headstone,

Where I could haul myself up,

Leaning with my good arm

On your stone.


We laughed,

Elizabeth and I,

For it was funny—

Funnily sad—

She had fallen seconds before I had,

Bruising her bum,

And me: breaking my wrist,

My first broken bone—

An old woman

Even older a month later—

A mother

Who just wanted to visit

Remains of her son—

Remnants from a dreadful day

Three years ago—

But unable to accomplish a simple feat

Without mishap.


I swear I heard you laughing

And your words, “Oh, Mom!”

And then, “I gotta go.”

Matt hunting

If you enjoyed this poem and would like to read more, check out the book I published on the third anniversary of Matthew’s death.  MY HEART IS BROKEN

Matt book of poems full cover for wp




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A Weepy Couple of Days

So, I had too much vino yesterday. Not that it affects me THAT much. But I wrote this (untitled) poem while under the influence:


It’s a never-ending day of tears.

Tomorrow is Father’s Day.


I clutch my glass of wine,

Afraid someone will steal it.


But I’m alone.


The elusive sun beats down on me.

I should have applied sunblock

But today is the second day of summer

As far as temps go,

Surely one day—or two—won’t hurt.


I replenish my glass.

The wine soothes my throat

And my soul.


I lean back,

Absorbing the sun,

Trying to ignore the empty space.


We arranged the chairs last week

Around the bubbling pool,

I moved one away from the spot

Where he used to recline.


He loved the sun,

Loved the peace and quiet

That was so elusive his last few months.


My eyes can’t help but dart there

As much as I don’t want to see,

But maybe if I look

I’ll see him,

Maybe it’s all a nightmare in my head

And maybe he’s still here.




I look:

The space is empty.

Yet, if I look and imagine,

I can see him:

His body stretched on the lounger,

His head leaning back

Enjoying the sun and his thoughts—



I’m taken to the past

To another sight:

Him in his coffin,

Stretched out,

His head back.


It didn’t look like him.

His colour was off,

His neck—

I’ll never forget that neck.

Too thick.

Not him.


And his eyes—

No…shouldn’t be closed.


I couldn’t cry that day.

I wanted to.

I should have, right?

That was my son in the burnished rented coffin—

Couldn’t buy real. Why?

Not with cremation the next step.


No, I couldn’t cry that day

Despite the slideshow of

His past and present.

No future—

But I couldn’t cry.


People cried around me.

I was surrounded by tears.

None were mine.


I couldn’t even force myself to cry.

Tears were hidden. I had to be strong.

I WAS strong.


For that one day.


But I should have been weeping

And screaming

And shrieking.


He was my son.

I should have cried.


I should have draped myself over his casket and never let go.


I should have cried.


I didn’t.


But ever since that day,

I’ve cried.


I have to be strong.

But why?


I’m not strong.

I’m weak and helpless.

I want my son.


Every passing day makes life harder.

There’s little signs.

Not much.

Nothing I believe in.


I held my wine glass in the sun today.

The sun blinded me

Despite my sunglasses.


I thought I saw a dragonfly.

I thought I saw a sign.


No, it was only a mirage:

Him sitting in the recliner.


A distant memory.


Tomorrow is Father’s Day.


I think of him


And my father.


I think of my mother.

I think of all those who’ve passed.

I can’t stop shedding tears.


I’m sober now (somewhat!). Kidding! I am. I don’t drink as much as I let on. (Or do I? Does it matter?)

So, today is Father’s Day.

On Facebook, I posted “Happy Day” to my son-in-law and my son, along with my deceased son. I do that every year. The three are (my deceased son was) great fathers. The best. I love them all.

my three boys crop


My father, too (another post for him). A great man. Not too communicative, but us five kids could always count on him. It’s been twenty-one Father’s Days that he’s been gone. Where have twenty-one years gone?


And where have the last three Father’s Days gone without my son here to celebrate? His poor children. I can’t imagine their pain.

So, I’m signing off.

Happy Father’s Day to all the world’s fathers.

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